“Yes, seriously, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone of rational advice to a person understood to be altogether rational, “I strongly recommend you—I shall ask you to oblige me so far—not to repeat your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of as ‘the young lady who hunts’ by way of exception, would give a tone to the language about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon it, his lordship would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria should hunt in this part of the country, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, it will be different: you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses.” “I don’t know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without _that_ prospect, at least,” said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle’s speech had given her annoyance, which she could not show more directly; but she felt that she was committing herself, and after moving carelessly to another part of the room, went out. “She always speaks in that way about marriage,” said Mrs. Davilow; “but it will be different when she has seen the right person.” “Her heart has never been in the least touched, that you know of?” said Mr. Gascoigne. Mrs. Davilow shook her head silently. “It was only last night she said to me, ‘Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. It is easy to make them do it in books. But men are too ridiculous.’” Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark on the subject. The next morning at breakfast he said, “How are your bruises, Rex?” “Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little.” “You don’t feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?” “Not quite,” answered Rex, with his heart metaphorically in his mouth. “Well, you can wait till to-morrow, and go to say good-bye to them at Offendene.” Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her coffee lest she also should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already. Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex’s acute attack, but he believed it to be in the end the kindest. To let him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen’s own lips might be curative in more ways than one. “I can only be thankful that she doesn’t care about him,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, when she joined her husband in his study. “There are things in Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her, with all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will not help in the schools with Anna—not even in the Sunday-school. What you or I advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is completely under her thumb. But I know you think better of her,” Mrs. Gascoigne ended with a deferential hesitation.